for gamanyeah

[discarding]

For months, Midousuji had pushed himself as hard as he could.

Physically, of course, but there were other limits to experiment with. Less comfortable, less familiar. Midousuji Akira has never been against doing whatever he has to to win, including fighting dirty—deploying sabotage, instigating physical harm, forcing himself beyond his own limits to the point of injury time and time again... but included, a stone unturned, was what Midousuji had considered to be unfathomable. The worst thing—the thing he scoffed at and mocked the most. Connections with other people. Deriving strength from them.

Funnily, the person who Midousuji would be, traditionally, most apt to ignore, had instead somehow became the one person he found he'd listen to—quietly, without acknowledgement, but it came to that none-the-less. Someone whose presence he could sense even when he was out cold, and sometimes, someone whose voice would leak around and into the crevices of his mind like sticky, honey-sweet and vile ichor in that same state.

Ishigaki told Midousuji what his weakness was, and initially, Midousuji could barely recall. And once it came around to him, turning in his brain, his blood boiled with anger—because Ishigaki—always there, persistent, whether Midousuji wanted it or liked it or not—not only because he trusted Ishigaki's word, but because his advice and criticism were from such a place of human standard that Midousuji couldn't relate to. Couldn't understand. Who could he rely on? For whom could he possibly find inspiration to pull? How was tying your strengths into the wills of other people, with emptier weight and less stake in the game, supposed to make you stronger?

But Midousuji, nonetheless, toiled towards this goal, and hated every second of it—it was like breaking his every bone by hand himself, and splinting, forcing them to regrow incorrectly. And through the entire process, his thoughts furiously turned, burning around Ishigaki. He hadn't even realized that Ishigaki, at that point, had been his most trusted resource; the source of what would be the deciding factor to his goal.

What he was relying on.

And, in turn, what gave him strength; Midousuji's eyes were wide, almost in disbelief when he'd not only passed the finish line in first on the third day of the 43rd, and, Midousuji's final, Interhigh. By his own merits, to no one's surprise, of course including Midousuji's, he'd taken a victory for Kyofushi in the first day, dominating the sprint course. Midousuji had always placed well. But with that missing piece finally in place, mind and body numb and buzzing, Midousuji had taken the final victory he'd so sought after. The victory that was his make or break—the piece to be taken and settled, to determine if he'd continue as pro, and to in turn, some day, work towards Tour de France.

It was true that Midousuji had struggled, with success, to put more trust in place of his team, still strictly trained and regimented as ever... but primarily, he'd been pulling because of Ishigaki. With his head stuffed to capacity with thoughts of him. Inadvertently, though it nauseated Midousuji to acknowledge it, Ishigaki had been the reason why he pulled, and had been the one who shaped Midousuji to his final form. The victor.

Kyoto Fushimi had talked amongst themselves about their surprise regarding Midousuji's reaction—the look of disbelief. And it did seem strange—Midousuji was confident, and self assured. But they misdiagnosed the nature of his surprise. It wasn't the victory itself, but more its reason.

And that reason was Ishigaki.

Once passed finish, Midousuji's arms fell heavily after his triumphant, ecstatic posing, his elbows bruising against the handlebars of his bike. In disbelief, his head hung, jaw slung slightly open, his lungs burning as he panted heavily through a dry, sore throat, watching as his sweat pelt his shaking arms. He was spent—empty, totally drained, as always, since he always pushed himself to or past his limits... but there was something else present that day.

Midousuji felt he could barely walk, though it was more than exhaustion—he managed to get over his stupified shock with a snap of his teeth (after some time of his team wondering in hushed, worried mumbling if he was okay, having expected he'd be more excited for their win), all grins after that. And to his surprise, though he didn't want to belabor the fact, he was proud of them, too. Also a bit of an unusual feeling—but Midousuji was able to assuage his nerves about it, because evolution was the only way to ensure victory. This just wasn't a form he was used to. They were just feelings he'd never felt, before.

And that numbing, preoccupying buzzing in his head about Ishigaki didn't cease that night. Midousuji barely slept, staring off into the darkness aimlessly for hours, despite his exhaustion. It carried on that way for weeks, actually.

Here and there, days and nights, Midousuji had found himself distantly fussing about it. Ishigaki was in Tokyo, and he'd soon be graduating. He might have returned to Kyoto, at that point, and Midousuji felt queasy at the way the thought made his heart stutter and his stomach lurch, unable to recognize it as a sort of excitement inspired by hope. He just quantified it as what he could understand: a gross distraction. His instinct to things like that, given that they're 1) uncomfortable, and most unforgivably, 2) distracting, had always been to amputate them at their inception. Keep his heart cold and comfortable, but he knew now that wasn't beneficial to his growth.

Yes, evolution had gotten more of his attention and care as a goal than growth, and in this time frame after the 43rd Interhigh, Midousuji realized this. Emptily, distracted, Midousuji went through the motions of his graduation, of exams, and realized without that amputation, to rid himself of the preoccupation... there had to be some kind of action. With Ishigaki. His unexpected trump card, and unexpected resource of strength. The person who'd earned his respect. Midousuji had initially been dismissive of him, since he seemed so standard on the surface—someone beautiful to the point of being unremarkable, someone charming, sensitive, and all the rest of Midousuji that he holds in contempt as the antithesis to his own design.

But gradually, Midousuji realized other things—that no matter what, whether he likes it or not, Ishigaki can, and will, see Midousuji. And since his late mother, no one else ever has. Not only did Ishigaki see Midousuji, but he persisted in pursuit of Midousuji's benefit. Not only all of that nonsense, but Ishigaki was actually sharp. He was analytical, and Midousuji finally realized, at the end of the day, he couldn't argue with Ishigaki's logic; they both wanted the same thing, and they both, disturbingly, had similar versions of the same perspective.

Strangely, it's come to the point where Ishigaki just makes sense. Which is why Midousuji is currently in his fourth week of hissing through his teeth, smacking his head against walls, rubbing his dry palms excessively in speed and force across his face, screaming—whenever his mind works itself up into enough of a frenzy about it. About him. This is compounded by the gradually dawning realization that after all that realization, the occupying of his head...

If Ishigaki doesn't go pro, or if Ishigaki doesn't decide to stay in Kyoto, what reason is Midousuji really going to have to see him again? The real answer is that you can hit people up you like for any reason and hang out with them and that's acceptable and normal, but Midousuji is in such unfamiliar territory around that concept, and also so disgusted by himself for it, that this plain, basic social knowledge is completely out of his reach for consideration.

He's thought about it, of course—but he doesn't know how to broach it, much less what his own feelings around it even are. Even looking at Ishigaki's name in his contact list just sends him into a fit, so there's just simply no progress to be had there.

So... instead, not that Midousuji thinks it's a better idea to just... lurk around Tokyo, like some skittish ghoul deadset on haunting what he doesn't comprehend to be his object of boyish infatuation. Midousuji is clumsy, and more than simply standout—he's aware he has no scope of stealth. He's tall enough to stand out in a crowd, distinctly broad-shouldered, and with a face and expression so uniquely vacant and haunting that there's probably only one other person with the same features, being his genetic contributor who he's never met.

So Midousuji keeps distance, peering from behind walls or things like poles, trying to keep his posture low in a hunch where his height may be too conspicuous...

His intention was to meet up with Ishigaki by chance, having some vague idea of his usual haunts and habits from social media (of which Midousuji has vague, blank accounts, and no activity)... but then, having seen Ishigaki, confirming his brilliant, strategic thinking, Midousuji was immediately so overwhelmed by nerves and disgust that he couldn't just approach Ishigaki. He hadn't thought about how to pull it off as incidental. And honestly, having no idea of how to pull that off, Midousuji had thought he could just assertively approach him without such pretense...

...but all at once, just immediately, so uncharacteristically, every ounce of his nerve had left him.

Midousuji doesn't recognize himself, and it's Ishigaki's fault. Midousuji squints resentfully at the back of Ishigaki's head, tucked behind a phone pole semi-conspicuously, partially obscured with the addition of other visual clutter that can be expected on the busy streets of Tokyo, near Ishigaki's apartment. To which he's never been. But he knows the area, based on stalking observation.

How gross... So gradually, reaching inside of Midousuji, so subtly manipulating his insides that Midousuji didn't even notice, changing him... He feels a little angry about it, but knows he can't be ungrateful; he got what he wanted, which was victory.

So what else is it, then? What is he doing?? What exactly does he want?

Stupid Ishigaki.

"Groossssssss," he exhales slowly in a low, almost inaudible rasp.

Comments

[discarding]

“Shut up. You haven’t seen crap,” Midousuji spits, but of course, he’s referring to his athletic prowess. Yes, their race isn’t to be truly serious—not true competition—but Midousuji intends to not only size Ishigaki up, but to punish him with his performance.

And so, once they get to their destination, Midousuji does.

And when their series of test races are over, Midousuji hangs his head heavily over his handlebars, breathing so heavily that he heaves in wheezing gasps, eyes wide and limbs shakily unstable as he watches the asphalt below him pelt in dark spots from his pouring sweat, his broad, bony ribs expanding strenuously with his every inhale through his ragged, dry throat. Yes, he’d pushed too hard. Yes, he’d pulled too far away.

Midousuji had raced from Ishigaki like if Ishigaki could catch him, it might kill Midousuji. He’d come here—had been vying—shamefully so, thirsting for Ishigaki. But the panic seized him, propelled him, and he performed too hard.

Ishigaki had touched his back to check with Midousuji, saying nothing, and Midousuji’s gaze, nor body, moved, simply gulping in exhaustion for air. He did not feel empty. His body thrummed, overworked and anxious, and Midousuji finally, nervously, glanced at Ishigaki.

Midousuji’s heart jumped into his throat, and he worried, or perhaps, unacceptingly, had briefly realized, that he was, indeed, in love with Ishigaki.

---

Midousuji, after that last hang out session, had tried to enact some space for the sake of self preservation. In fact, everything after that panic (the very same day) had been disturbingly savored, even though Midousuji had tried to put distance in his heart from between the two of them. And of course, all due to how disquieting that same potential realization at its inception had been, but by the very nature of that same epiphany, he’d been unable to do anything in that time but bask helplessly in the sparkle of Ishigaki’s stupid, over-eager eyes.

Even on the ride home from the train station, Midousuji’s hands clenched too hard on the drop-bars of his bike’s handles so as to quell their nervy tremors, Midousuji had thought about how even before he gets home, he’ll probably already be starving for Ishigaki’s company.

It’s not to say he hadn’t been somewhat aware of his feelings going in, but the recklessness of his self indulgence (against his typically-better judgement) had opened up the box a little too much, revealing what Midousuji wasn’t prepared to properly face.

And that was a humiliating feeling.

He was, after all, little, if not but a remarkable strategist. Prepared for anything, including devastating emotional blowback. But this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Sure, he’d loved before—but not this way. Something he’d never even thought about had suddenly found him and thrust his back up against the wall using its clawed, hostile hand against his throat as his feet scrambled for purchase uselessly against the wall behind him, hopeless to touch the floor.

Fuck.

All that said, however, Midousuji couldn’t resist. He did reach out less; he did try less. The dizzying high of his most important and monumental victory yet had left him in an incalibrated way. It had made him vulnerable; had made him foolish. He thought of Ishigaki no less, but gave far less into the temptation to quell that longing fist-over-dick, or to let his thoughts stick on the object of his affection for more than a passing consideration. And sure, that diminished the duration—it successfully did not deepen the root of that feeling in the inspiration of its inception, but that didn’t cease their merciless onslaught by frequency.

So while it curbed his desire to reach out tremendously overall, that did not, all said, totally keep Midousuji from the hunger for Ishigaki’s company, nearness, warmth and voice that ultimately would result in Midousuji reaching out. And indeed, disgustingly, to his own chagrin and furious disgust with himself, he did see Ishigaki a couple more times.

Their subsequent sessions together were just regular, and lowkey—Midousuji thinks, anyway. He knows Ishigaki is inappropriately invested in Midousuji, in a way that borders on perverse—but not in the way that’s inappropriate or perverse in the specific way he internally desires with such violent fervor. He’s a martyr, and a martyr is just, and only, one thing: a moral pervert. He has stakes in Midousuji, because he knows Midousuji is different—and unlike other gross, beautiful, capable and normal people, Ishigaki not only sees that, but also sees Midousuji for his humanity. Sees him as a person. And that’s why, increasingly, Midousuji can’t not return the hold of that stupid, sparkly gaze, too spurred by the depth of his own growing appetite. It made his body ache deep, painfully and hard, like when one is desperately dehydrated—but so too, it made his mouth water; it sprung tension in every (every) part of his body; it made his heart pound in stress, excitement and fear. All of it wrapped in the bow that dictated why he couldn’t bear to look anywhere else.

Ishigaki. Ishigaki.

Increasingly frustrated, Midousuji now lays rolled flat on his face, arms and legs too straight parallel to his torso, eyes open, horrifyingly, against the fabric of his too-stiff, thin pillow, barely able to breathe through his snake-like, narrow nose. And he doesn’t even notice either of those discomforts, and he hasn’t noticed, as a matter of fact, for the better part of at least 26 minutes.

He’s never quite encountered this—a problem that he can’t solve. And being paralyzed by all this is better than the alternative, that alternative being picking up his phone, and brazenly, perhaps most disgustingly of all, despite the fact that it was 10:13 pm (Midousuji knew this, despite not moving; he’d been counting every second since falling face down on his bed for the sake of not letting his brain do anything besides seconds-counting), dialing Ishigaki. He’d have nothing to say. There’s nothing to report. No plans to make. And if he wanted to make plans, it’s too late to do that. Sure, there’s about a 62% chance Ishigaki would be awake, but that isn’t the problem. The problem is the principle of that desire and impulse. The problem is it would reveal Midousuji’s eagerness, which he’s increasingly desperate to mask, but also increasingly, desperately crushed by the weight of the growing boulder in question that he’s trying to push up hill.

He’s like a stupid little dung beetle that’s challenged a turd too big out of its own brainless, instinct-driven greed.

His fingers twitch, and he rasps hoarsely through his throat, almost in subconscious reflex to the fact that he’s barely been able to breathe for almost 30 minutes, and his knuckles brush his phone.

Even a text is out of the question.

Midousuji bites his tongue, expression twisting with tension wrought by stress, the wet of the muscle drying against the same fabric that disturbingly presses against his eyes.

Most baffling of all was that apparently people experienced this—often—much earlier than Midousuji has, and between that age and Midousuji’s age, perhaps many times. And most horrifyingly of all, people typically enjoy this?

Midousuji’s maybe googled how to enact a trans orbital lobotomy one or nine times to see if he can eject his desire and the other associated feelings more gentle and humiliating than their biologically carnal and utilitarian expressions.

The thrill of how Ishigaki had successfully aided in Midousuji and enacted a type of growth Midousuji never would have known he needed organically had masked the consideration of this terror. The terror of being in love. How much further did he need to be altered, and to what end? Ishigaki is a source of strength, certifiably!, but Midousuji can’t be reliant on it, either. And love does nothing but blur people right the fuck out of their priorities, self understanding, identities, and clarity.

“Ickygakiiiiiii-kunnn,” Midousuji scours out roughly, muffled against his bedding.

[gamanyeah]

Ishigaki wakes with a snort and a full-body jerk. He heaves a breath, gagging on a mouthful of pillowcase before tossing his head aside, gasping for air.

As his breathing settles, and that takes longer than he'd like to, he does eventually notice his hand has been clasping his ear, and that there was a familiar, hot ache in his boxers.

--

( in which ishi doesnt realize hes in a relationship, but mido does )

The dream is short-- plotless and sudden, with haziness inbetween, but it's enough to linger for days on end inside Ishigaki's head.

They're in a room, not dissimilar to his own, curled up into each other-- Midousuji caging around him. It's hard to fathom the thought of the other inviting someone into his arms like this, let alone Ishigaki himself, but there's something telling him that here, right now, maybe this is normalized between the two of them. He leans back into Midousuji, that thought confusing, and tilts his head.

Though the vision is fuzzy as it is gentle, he stares at Midousuji's face from below, the TV screen light flickering in the other's eyes-- close enough to see, although hardly there, the other's tiny eyelashes above and below them. Midousuji is content with an expression void of any interest concerning his surroundings, and that's enough for Ishigaki to relax, his shoulders dropping down to a comfortable level.

It's... nice, oddly enough. 

Ishigaki gawks for a long enough time that Midousuji does eventually choose to notice, oval eyes snapping to meet his, and they whipe away the ease he just had. Neither of them say a word, and Ishigaki grows overwhelmingly self conscious, cheeks speckled pink.

Until suddenly there’s a warm, wet tongue laving over his ear, and Ishigaki in return yelps.

"What the hell--?" Ishigaki's voice cracks when he shouts, face abruptly beating hot in time to his fluttering pulse. He whips his head around, eyes wild. Midousuji's eyes roll up in response, playing innocent as he stares into the corner of their ceiling, tongue still slipped out between thin lips.

"Don't... Don't do that!"

"Haaah? Why shouldn't I?"

Being so close together, he can feel the rumble in both their chests as Midousuji speaks.

"What? Because it's... it's weird, that's why." Ishigaki's voice lowers, his tone indicating the obvious. Midousuji lacks social awareness, but surely there were limits even to him, weren't there?

When Midousuji shifts closer, Ishigaki's breath hitches-- watching with wide eyes at the way his expression twist-- to the mischief on his lips, to the corner of his eyes wrinkling. He laughs, but it's different from his usual demeanor. Yes, it's dripping with ill intent, but it's surely genuine. Midousuji is... happy, he thinks, and that's enough to let Ishigaki forget the situations he's in, if just for a moment.

But once again, Midousuji chooses to inturpt any of Ishigaki's peace, and the tip of his tongue is back to flickering around his ear.

"Stop, stop!" He shivers, leaning forward for an escape, but is interrupted by Midousuji's hold-- pushed back hard against his chest. Midousuji cackles in response, and Ishigaki squirms uselessly in a flustered panic, gripping hard onto Midousuji's forearms.

"You're the weird one, getting excited over something like that." Midousuji's voice drips with a sweet venom, and Ishigaki haults his squirming, his body growing cold. "Nasty. I was just picking on you."

"What? I'm not..."

When Ishigaki's head snaps down, he's met with a tent set up inside his boxers. A strangled gasp leaves his throat, and he begins to stutter out an incomprehensible apology.

Midousuji interrupts, covers his ear with more saliva, as if to say "shut up." It works, and it only takes Midousuji to poke a finger at his tip through the cloth, bobbing it around to make Ishigaki moan, short and sharp-- the noise catching him so offgaurd he has to slap a hand over his own mouth.

Ishigaki's head spins, his thoughts unable to keep up with what's unraveling before him, and the last thing he hears before he fades back into conciousness, is:

“Woooow, Ishigaki. You are really, really gross.”

--

He's dreamt of Midousuji plenty of times throughout the years, from casually to those self rewarding dreams of recieving the praise he no longer needed. It's obvious to anyone, even himself, that his relationship with Midousuji has always been ( to his knowledge ) a one-sided, borderline obsession. But he's never dreamt of... something like this. Not with a friend. Not with a man. Not with... Midousuji.

Ishigaki tries to ignores it all completely at first-- a dream and nothing more, he thinks, but he unfortunately isn't so stupid. He's thankful for the days he's away from Midousuji lately, although his heart twists terribly in his chest, it's enough to not enhance the feeling that's been planted and, really, already had been planted this whole time-- and it's that though exactly that won't go away.

A feeling that's always been there, and now Midousuji was only nurturing it each time they met, hadn't he? If that wasn't the case, Ishigaki surely wouldn't be so worked up-- when Midousuji never gave him the time of day beforehand, and when things are so different now.

Although as he sits there, face pink and head dizzy, Ishigaki still insists he doesn't know what it all really means.

Or, that he doesn't 't know what the traded glances between Shinkai and Fukutomi mean when he shares what they had done on their weekends together, with eyes bright and smile stupid.

That he doesn't know what it means when he's stuck admiring the way Midousuji's muscles flex under his damp skin, instead of focusing on the road ahead of him-- as if that was almost better than the finish line they were aiming for. 

That he doesn't know why the memory of Midousuji's ears glowing pink much like a kitten's plays over, and over, and over again in his head.

But right now, what he does know, is that he wants to hear Midousuji's voice.

It's dark, and Ishigaki is stuck fiddling with the eraser on his desk instead of the assignment due tomorrow infront of him, wobbling it side to side until it slips, falls over and off to the floor. He sighs.

Without that distraction, he raises a hand to cover his ear, half expecting it to be wet- as if recalling a memory instead of a dream. Then he groans, loud enough where he's thankful he doesn't have roommates, and clasps fists full of his hair.

For reasons unknown to him, not hearing from Midousuji as the days stretch by, is somehow more stressful than it has to be. The fact that he's now sitting infront of a half finished homework is proof that he needed an answer to the questions swimming in his head-- or at least, a wake up call.

It's late. Too late for a phone call to be reasonable. He could send a text, but he doesn't want that-- it wouldn't be enough. Not when they're stuck being so far away, for so long. When he craves all the spare time they had in high school, there has to a middle ground between now and then, right?

His thumb hovers over Midousuji's icon in his contacts, where the picture set is Ishigaki's pet venus fly trap, with a wide mouth not dissimilar to Midousuji's own. Maybe waking Midousuji up to screech about how late it is, to have a new string of insults thrown at him, was the bullying Ishigaki needed right now.

[discarding]

To Midousuji’s (squawking, full-body jolting) surprise, his phone suddenly lights up. Midousuji twists in disbelief, pelvis still against his bed, propped up clumsily by his elbows as he stares in disbelief through the first round of ringing, watching his phone buzz as sweat beads on his skin.

Ishigaki.

Normally, Midousuji answers his phone the second it rings—that is, when it’s a circumstance where Midousuji picks up at all. Sometimes, Midousuji just silences the ringing and ignores the call—often, when overwhelmed, but mostly, he tends to answer straight away. Ishigaki, Onoda, the Hisaya house (of course; he’d never bluff that call), teammates…

But not Ishigaki. Or at least, never since his second year of high school. Usually, he’d send the call to voicemail, and irritably text Ishigaki to update him on whatever team-related nonsense via email. Or to not bother—Midousuji was pulling the strings, all by himself, for so long—communication with his team wasn’t necessary.

Things have changed. Midousuji doesn’t really know his team, yet, so it hasn’t had opportunity to occur—but Midousuji has decided since his victory of the 43rd Interhigh that he’ll always answer their calls. And so too with Ishigaki. And their calls are still rare—Midousuji is an awkward conversationalist to start, and it’s worse over the phone (for all parties involved).

So, realizing the phone’s half way through it’s rings before voicemail, Midousuji clumsily snatches his phone, and, with dramatic, rag-doll fashion, Midousuji throws himself on his back, eyes wide, and answers Ishigaki’s call. His hands are uncomfortably damp—a problem Midousuji never has—so he immediately puts Ishigaki on speaker. His palms flex anxiously over his shirt, above his frantically-still beating heart, eyes wide at his ceiling.

He doesn’t know what to say. His palms wring the fabric of the shirt.

“Ishigaki-kun,” Midousuji prompts. If he had the mind, he’d sound annoyed—but he sounds monotonous. Flat. Maybe an ounce curious. But truly, with baffled wonder.

How about that timing?

Of course distance wasn’t possible. Of course not.

His body thrums and tingles, very subtly, with what Midousuji doesn’t recognize as relief.

“It’s…late.”

Why on earth would Ishigaki be calling him? Throat dry, Midousuji swallows, then lifts a hand to anxiously pull at the side of his lower lip, eyes widening.

[gamanyeah]

Ishigaki sits up rigid in his seat, phone pushed against his cheek a bit too hard. The line pops with static, and there's a silence long enough that Ishigaki worries that the call has dropped, but he does, to his surprise, eventually hear Midousuji's low and familiar tone. He had grown so used to the pattern of leaving voice mails instead, that he half expected nothing to come out of this.

But, that's right, Ishigaki reminds himsef. Things are different now.

"Yeah, it is. I'm sorry." Ishigaki eventually replies, followed by a quiet laugh. His body feels as tense as it does tingly, and he nervously twiddles his feet-- rubbing at his ankle through the fabric of his sock. Somehow, he's managed not to show his new string of mental problems in his voice.

Well, Midousuj answered, and he doesn't sound upset. That should be enough to ease his nerves, but Ishigaki didn't think he'd get this far.

...An explanation. Shit. He needed one of those, didn't he?

"I... Well, I have an assignment due tomorrow morning. I'm going to be up awhile." The words come out slow, and Ishigaki feels he's lying when he says this, but he knows he's not wrong. It's less humiliating if he stays vague, anyhow. "I can't focus. So I thought that, maybe, I could use some.. company.

...

"Is that okay?"

[discarding]

Midousuji weirdly bites his lower lip when Ishigaki answers him—particularly with the hushed, whisper of an apologetic laugh he gets. As Ishigaki elaborates, Midousuji is so distracted by what his voice does to him he doesn’t respond right away—again. It’s like Ishigaki’s voice comfortably and smoothly swims through his head, warm and gentle, and that quality carries right through from Midousuji’s forehead to the tips of his toes (which he curls, also weirdly, looking remarkably tense despite the pleasant feelings).

Belatedly, Midousuji’s mind digests what Ishigaki’s said, and he blinks once.

“Gross.”

Company. Late, distracted, wanting company. And Ishigaki called Midousuji for that? Company, of all things. A product most people can better provide, at least in this function. Certainly in this function. Why was Ishigaki so weird? So gross.

Snatching his lip between his teeth again, Midousuji looks off to nothing in particular to the side of him, the back of head still firmly planted in place against his stiff pillow. It’s too easy, how Midousuji finds himself admitting so readily in his mind that were it more feasible, he’d simply go straight to Ishigaki’s. Because, of course, Midousuji isn’t going to deny this request.

Which is insane, actually. It’s hard not to compare how he feels now to how he felt towards Ishigaki in their earlier history without having his mind completely scrambled by the juxtaposition.

It’s probably for the best he can’t visit. Midousuji would end up being more distracting than occupying—Midousuji would be the one distracted, in cozy, quiet company with Ishigaki in his room, late in the drowsy, quiet evening. It’s too easy, as well, to find himself a little excited at the thought—which prompts Midousuji to lift a hand, far, far above his head, empty gaze returning to its forward position.

And then he drops his hand, because now he’s the one who’s gross—certainly grosser!!!—, thusly just monkeyslapping himself right in the dick before it gets any bright ideas. Which, of course, causes Midousuji to immediately shriek, then flip sideways, towards his phone.

Midousuji bites his lip again as his hands immediately clutch his freshly-disciplined genitalia through his boxers, not even wincing, though one eye does feel a bit watery. Midousuji stares at his phone, his breath a little shaky from the pain. At least he mostly missed his balls.

“…That’s fine. I’m not tired.”

Though Midousuji always drops like clockwork at his self appointed bedtimes, so regimented as he is—by intention, Midousuji’s body is like a machine in its every reasonably possible way, he was working up and fraying his nerves even before this phone call.

Now, with all the nervy, juvenile energy coursing through that same, stupid body, Midousuji could probably be up until just before sunrise.

“Buuut?” Midousuji tilts his head, eyes rolling away as his tongue flops out from his mouth, wrists still clamped between his strong thighs. “Isn’t a phone call distracting for something like homework? Stuuuuupid Ishigaki-kun. Dumby.”

[gamanyeah]

Midousuji squawks, and Ishigaki jumps- phone almost slipping out of his hand. He waits a long moment for an explanation, but nothing comes.

...?

Ah, well, Midousuji is known for his variety of noises, and that certainly knocked him out of his gay little thoughts, if just for a moment...

But then soon enough Midousuji goes on to berate him, and Ishigaki can't control the smile he gets. Midousuji's response is not the erratic, bitter reaction he was hoping to snap him back into reality, but... playful-- and that, with his stomach flopping oddly in response, is somehow worse.

"Well, that's true." He almost offers that if his idea is too silly, Midousuji can always hang up, but he knows that his best quality is his honesty-- and there's relief in that. Honesty. Ishigaki should be honest with himself, too, he thinks, and his mind traces back to why he wanted this in the first place: to hear Midousuji's voice.

Ishigaki abruptly shakes his head, breathes heavy once through his nose, and for the first time in that hour, he faces away from the floor and to the laptop screen infront of him.

"Then your job is to not let me get too sidetracked, okay?"

Once Midousuji is put on speaker, he forces himself to eye over what he has and, mostly, hasn't accomplished, before leaning back into his chair. He does find himself easing up once he gets his thoughts back into a routine, and he manages to focus long enough that it does surprise him despite the underlying issues at hand.

Until, he doesn't.

"It's a shame," he begins, shifting through the notes sprawled out infront of him. The words come out without thought, as if just there to break the silence. "That you're so far away."

What would they do so late together, even? Midousuji would always be long gone before the sun had set, so Ishigaki still had new sides to see from Midousuji even now, hadn't he? As he attempts to tap away at his keyboard, that thought lingers until its loud, and he comes to realize that he hasn't seen... well, a domestic side of him.

Fidgeting in his seat, Ishigaki blinks exessivly at his own words. As paranoid as he is about Midousuji seeing through him tonight, he hurriedly continues off of what he had said. "Ah- I mean. Doing homework, studying, those kind of things... I guess it'd be less weird to do together than over the phone, wouldnt it?"

[discarding]

Midousuji, for some reason, feels his stomach clench and twist when he hears that heavy, comfortable exhale. The kind of thing Midousuji would hear if he was in knee-to-knee nearness with Ishigaki on his narrow, single-person accommodating futon.

Midousuji reels his head back, weirded out by himself—both for the physical reaction and for the observation. Uncomfortably, he rolls his eyes to the side, and self consciously draws his knees up, resting his dangling fingers from the limp perch of his wrist against his waist, stiff, thin arm pressed against his belly almost as if to hug himself. He lifts his other hand to bite at the edge of his thumb, trying to quell his juvenile, infatuated anxiety. It’s uncomfortable, but, Midousuji thinks, maybe a little addicting.

That’s why he doesn’t hang up, despite the discomfort.

“I’m not your keeper,” Midousuji answers plainly, quietly, staring hard out of the corners of his eyes to his sheets. “I agreed to push you. Your self control is your own job, Ishigaki-kun.”

He probably sounds more serious than he means to, distracted as he is. His stomach clenches again and his heart stutters a hard, clumsy beat when Ishigaki says it’s a shame that he’s so far away. Midousuji’s jaw slowly opens, but he finds no words come; once he again, he doesn’t know what to say. He isn’t even quite sure what he’s feeling, or how to describe it. The truth is, it’s a flood of inspired yearning—the melancholy that comes with it, but the excitement of Ishigaki’s expression.

But Ishigaki’s always been this way. It used to annoy him, the way he’d vye for Midousuji’s time, attention or company. And now here he is, strung along by a little string like an empty headed idiot schoolgirl. Disgraceful.

“Would it?” Midousuji asks, grateful for the follow-up providing some hook for him to actually grasp on. Midousuji feels it would be even more distracting in person, truth told—but Midousuji somehow manages the wherewithal to keep it to himself. “I’ve never studied with another person before, so I guess I don’t have a real opinion.

“I’ve helped Yuki-chan with some of her homework, here and there… But that’s different, probably.”

Wow. What a mundane, stupid conversation. Is this how this is? Is this how normal people do it. Is this normal social behavior. If Midousuji didn’t have to just smack his own dick to quell his hair-triggered excitement, he’d hang up to save himself from this bland exchange.

But it’s kind of… okay. Midousuji likes it, he thinks. Thoughtfully, he tugs on his lower lip, trying to assess his own feelings.

“I don’t,” Midousuji drawls very slowly, distracted by his own processing. “really work… with other people…”

[gamanyeah]

Self-control, huh? Ishigaki chuckles, then gives him a hum. He can't argue. He had already failed by calling him this late in a ruffled panic, and Ishigaki is suddenly thankful for the distance between them tonight. It's become difficult to think straight even without the scent of Midousuji's three in one body wash Ishigaki has oddly grown so attached to, let alone all of the unique physical features and quirks the other holds.

Then Midousuji goes on, and Ishigaki stops typing- fingers hovering over the keyboard. He looks away from the bare bones of his paper, staring solemnly at the phone as Midousuji pushes out those last words. It's nothing to be surprised about, but still his mouth straightens into a faint frown. He knows Midousuji is academically blessed if not a hard worker, so there wouldn't be a solid reason he'd ever form a study group. But Ishigaki knows that's not exactly the case.

Ishigaki places his hands in his lap, already losing the little focus he worked so hard to build.

"I think, sometimes, it's less about the studying and more of... Someone to do those mundane, tedious things with." Ishigaki feels odd, having to explain something so basic. He's sure Midousuji already knows this, though- or at least knows that others do.

"It's the company. It makes things easier, I guess." He picks nonchalantly at his nails- thinking of his next words- something he's been doing a lot of since his recent dream.

His heart twists in the same way it did when he would spot Midousuji eating lunch at school, alone, in various out of mind places around the school, and how despite all his best efforts, Ishigaki could never sit down and have a meal with the boy that occupied so many of his thoughts.

It's easy to mistake what he feels with pity-- but that's not quite it. It's longing. It always had been. As that comes to realization, Ishigaki eyes widen, and he picks a bit too hard at his fingers, a bit too suddenly, ripping off a hangnail.

Ow.

Despite the stinging pain, he rubs his thumb over the other in silence, and continues on with a question full of selfish curiosity.

"You don't... have anyone you want to do those things with?"

[discarding]

“Easier?”

Midousuji scoffs, rolling his eyes. All other people have ever really done with any efficiency is carry out his orders or get in the way. And in the case of the former, it’s really just Midousuji using those people like limb extenders—not particularly helpful. The weight is always his in its entirety, but it’s by design. He knows he doesn’t work well with others, but also, there’s no need to fix what isn’t broken.

“I’ll never get—or be like—people like you,” he says with a deep, exaggerated roll of his voice, the dramatic extension of his tongue all the way out to its base root audible in the drop of his voice. “In other words: nope nope, I don’t.”

He pauses, then purses his lips in a funny sideways quirk, considering his own words carefully. What a stupid game of checkers they’re playing—and neither is aware that the other treads just as carefully.

“What’s your paper about.”

Midousuji decides, then, to pick at his lip, his toes flexing so that his feet cross from their anxious perch, knees still bunched up near his chest.

“We may as well at least try to be on subject. I wonder if you were hoping for an excuse to procrastinate, Iiiishigaki-kuuun.”

[gamanyeah]

His reply comes as no surprise, and Ishigaki knows it isn't only Midousuji's social denseness coming into play. Still, he frowns.

"That's not true." Ishigaki says a bit too quickly, dismissing Midousuji's question completely- the words coming out before he can process them.

Midousuji's phrasing was clear. It wasn't meant to be up for debate. With him these things- human things- take time, slowly, like chipping away at an iceberg Ishigaki can't seem to see the end of. 

But if the two go at the pace of Ishigaki's patience, he's sure he'll never see how human Midousuji can and deserves to be.

Still, to disagree with Midousuji so bluntly, so personally-- it doesn't settle right with Ishigaki quiet yet, but the safety their distance provides plays a part in his boldness. His heart thumps strangely in his chest, and his fists grip tight in his lap.

"I mean. If that's not true, then..." Ishigaki clarifies, stumbling over his words. "Then what are we doing right now?"

[discarding]

Midousuji stares emptily forward, Ishigaki’s statement and question both swirling in his head—for some time, without resolution. His gaze eventually falls, his brow furrowing in a minute, subtle way.

It’s true to Midousuji. And that’s why he doesn’t know how to answer Ishigaki’s question.

“I don’t know how to answer that, because I’m not liiiike you,” Midousuji drawls, squinting in a way that seems bitter, but truly, it’s introspective. It’s not like he isn’t trying to bridge—but it’s also true that he’s annoyed to feel prompted to do so.

“I don’t want to do things like that with other people. Racing, homework, whatever—companionship is not a component of my wants. Or needs.” It’s almost derisive—venomous. Almost, but it isn’t. And even with Midousuji’s progress, it’s still an idea he resents—sure, he realizes the merit of relying on people in a mutual capacity now. He can let himself be soft enough to experiment with leaning into others where they can answer his deficits—facets long since neglected, for so long convinced they were something he could overcome. Which he couldn’t, because, ironically, in that regard, he was like other people; people needed people. But Midousuji’s clarity isn’t even quite there, yet.

To answer Ishigaki’s question, however…

Midousuji swallows uncomfortably, feeling tension rolling through his tired muscles in a way that causes him to curl a bit further in. His fingernail presses a harsh crescent, white and sharp, against the side of his lower lip.

This is Ishigaki’s ask for a favor. Not Midousuji’s. Midousuji is doing this because he has an obligation beyond novelty and inspiration to Ishigaki; if Ishigaki taught him about how one can derive strength from relying on other people, isn’t it obvious that Midousuji should transactionally thus posture himself as someone worth relying on?

But, wow, imagine saying as much—even if he even knew how to articulate it, just like that.

“For meee… tedium is made stressful by the company of other people, because we aren’t the same. It’s more efficient to do everything by myself, and that’s easier; opposite of you. What you’re describing makes things harder for me. So… what we’re doing is… you made a request, and I’m fulfilling it. Like I said…” Midousuji’s heart is hammering again, and he’s annoyed. He’s aware he can be misinterpreted for all this, and that’s irritating—but what’s more irritating is the simultaneous clarity that he doesn’t know how to express himself, and if he did, he’d probably deliberately withhold on that expression. “…it’s not as if I mind.

“Is…”

Midousuji pauses, then rolls on his back, rolling his eyes anxiously into their upper corners. His knees are still lifted, despite the change of position, his other arm tensing all its muscles and cords stiff across his bony shins.

“…that…inconsistent to what you know about me? Is it…bad?”

[gamanyeah]

"Not necessarily, no. What you're saying doesn't come as a surprise, but..."

But what?

Ishigaki's paper is non existent to him now, and the silence that fills the room feels unpleasantly loud. Ishigaki can't find the right words. His thoughts seem so ignorant- so simple- in comparison to Midousuji's words that he's sure to have already thought so much about.

What a lonely way of thinking, he judges, and he feels a ting of guilt in his chest for his self-centered point of view. But as Ishigaki looks back on their opposing life styles, with the weight Midousuji must carry trying to do everything himself, and with Ishigaki's life bursting with formed relationships, there's no positive way he can choose to view it. If not lonely, Midousuji surely must feel empty, shouldn't he?

In return to Midousuji's complex thinking, Ishigaki decides to reply simply in the end- sweat already forming on his palms before he speaks.

"I don't want to burden you with what I want, but I have to be honest. It's just... I want companionship. Friendship. Those sort of things... with you."

Ishigaki's hands are balled into fists planted tightly in his lap, and he's thankful Midousuji can't see his reddening expression. When confessed out loud, Ishigaki can't help but wonder if he shouldn't have asked Midousuji anything at all. But still, he continues to clarify, with his pulse drumming loudly in his ears.

"I know we're not the same. I don't think we have to be. It might be selfish, and I don't understand it myself, but I want you to feel those things too."

With the few moments passing between his words stretching out wide, Ishigaki hurriedly continues to fill the silence.

"Ah- um. Jeez, I'm sorry. I'm just talking about myself now, aren't I? I didn't mean to project..." Ishigaki stammers, with plenty of sheepishness in his voice. "Well, in any case, you're safe to exercise those things with me if you ever change your mind."

Ishigaki exhales heavily through his nose as if he hadn't taken a breath since he's spoken. Still, despite how simple words are, he feels lighter with his feelings aired out. He's surely said more personal, more 'gross' things, hadn't he? And so he takes comfort in the fact Midousuji won't run away from his exposure. Probably.

"And if you don't, then that's alright too. I like the way things are. I don't want to change you. But... I hope you'll consider me your friend, regardless."

[discarding]

Such a spiking surge of panic flares up within Midousuji that he almost slaps his phone over and over until he hopefully hits the end call prompt, but instead, he strangles his fingers into the fabric of his shirt, at the seams of his sleeves, between his pecs and shoulders. The fabric stretches, and there’s the tiny sound of pops from some of the threads breaking; his veins bulge in his arms, which lose any of their soft slopes from the way he so tensely holds himself, chords in his neck popping along with them as he grits his teeth, eyes wide as he juts out his lower jaw.

This is stressful. It incites panic. So why doesn’t he just hang up? He doesn’t have a problem with the idea—or at least, not for the right reasons. He doesn’t care about Ishigaki’s feelings (he’s pretty sure); it’s more that he doesn’t want to stop talking to him. But he’s pretty sure he can’t take much more of any of that. His mind is a hot, uncomfortable buzz.

I want you to feel those things too.

Midousuji parses it slowly, and it loops in his head in a way that makes his skin crawl. But he thinks about it, too—thinks about the uncomfortable, nibbling feeling, warm and unbearable in his chest with Onoda’s stubborn and ceaseless kind gestures despite all of Midousuji’s cold, hostile rejections—the premiere UNIT2 keychain sits on his desk.

There’s Yuki, too—and the rest of his family. Kindness and acceptance (tenuous, in Midousuji’s opinion—they don’t really know him, less so than even Onoda) he’s been too numb to properly receive, even now. But at least he’s becoming aware of it.

“Gross…”

And, of course, Ishigaki. The asshole in question responsible for all these uncomfortable, burgeoning and awakening feelings. It’s overwhelming, and overstimulating… but like Ishigaki says, it’s basically exercise. He’s getting stronger, in some capacity, but there’s always the worry that this won’t shake out in Midousuji’s favor; he’s only taking a chance on it because there was evidence it can make him a better athlete, in some capacity. He hopes it wasn’t a fluke.

Midousuji swallows as he listens to Ishigaki breathe out his nose, inspiring that unbearable yearn to be physically close; over the phone, those things are more easily heard than in person. Unless, of course, that person were very close.

When Ishigaki says he doesn’t want to change Midousuji, a sudden stillness sweeps over him—though there’s still tension in his body, it diminishes somewhat, and Midousuji rolls onto his side again, hand curled by his face with its twin resting against his futon. He blinks at his phone in his little horizon across his bedding.

He’d never gotten that impression, he supposes—though he hasn’t been made to think about it before.

These are all things that Midousuji could say—things that would be useful for giving Ishigaki some clarity. But of course, Midousuji does not say them. He wouldn’t know how, anyway.

His gaze dips. Though he’s caught in a gross, tender spot (asshole Ishigaki), he’s still irritated. If Ishigaki’s acknowledging Midousuji is tetchy about this stuff, then why the hell won’t he just relent and shut up?

He’s probably the opposite to Midousuji in this way too, he considers; keeping things in is unbearable, as opposed to expressing them being unbearable.

“Gross. You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Midousuji concludes in snappy order, and peeks back at his phone. And that’s by design, so he isn’t irritated about that; even besides his natural strangeness, there’s a reason why no one fully understands him, or makes certain assumptions about him. If it’s not their own organic inability to understand someone as different as he is, it’s because Midousuji has deliberately mislead them with a loathing, shit-headed smile down that path by their hand. “Why else would I be subjecting myself to your company? On purpose?”

Even this is so revealing that Midousuji’s fingers twitch, tempted to hang up again.

“Just because I don’t feel those things the way that you feel them doesn’t mean that I don’t feel them.”

Midousuji smothers his face against his blanket with an irritated shriek, then pulls it over his head, hissing as he hides. His voice is muffled, but he’s shouting, so he’s sure Ishigaki can hear him.

“Gross!! Gross, this is groooosssss!! Uncomfortable! So gross! Talk about something else or I’m gonna hang up on you! Ishigaki-kun!!”

[gamanyeah]

Of course they're friends. That much is obvious, he knows. But how can they expect to truly understand each other if Midousuji never says anything? So when he hears Midousuji spell it out to him so plainly in his own sharp kind of way, Ishigaki is unable to help the way his stomach bubbles and the smile that comes with it.

Although his heart beat hasn't quite come to a lull yet, his fists unclench inside his lap, and he leans back into his seat- now using his pent up energy to tap his feet happily on the legs of his chair instead.

Jeez, is that all it took to make him feel like a school girl?

He only feels a little guilty at how what brings him joy brings Midousuji waves of obvious, uncomfortable confusion. If his kindness didn't out weigh his thoughts, he'd consider spilling his pent up feelings out more often than he already has, or at the least, thank him for admitting what he has tonight.

Still, it was undeniably unnerving, being so sentimental with Midousuji- the last person to want to hear such a personal ramble- but the weight lifted off his shoulders from spilling a tidbit of what he really feels when there's so much more unfound, pent up emotions, is worth it, he supposes. Surely he was bound to pop if he hadn't.

When his ears pick up the sound of a distant, muffled screech, he laughs to himself sheepishly. "Oh? Is that such an awful thing to admit?"

And then that screech abrubtly turns into yelling, and Ishigaki is quick to recognize that his string of ill words only translates to unrecognizable, uneasy feelings. Still, it's enough to make him jolt straight up in his seat, and he hurriedly attempts to comfort him.

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry!" Ishigaki pleads. "I know that was a bit much. S-so please, don't yell..."

His eyes look away from his lap for the first time in a long moment, and he's met with a screen to remind him what he's been straying away from.

"Ah. Right. My paper. You asked about that, didn't you?"

Ishigaki gives himself a short time to looks over the little he's mapped out, then at the clock, and he sighs.

"I told you to keep me from getting side tracked, but you didn't listen," He teases, his voice indicating a mock-up irritation.

"Let's see... it's about buying trends of the current generation. Advertising to a younger audience... those sort of things. About as boring as it sounds."

Ishigaki smiles again- this time softly and at his phone. A smile for Midousuji he can't even see.

"...Is that better?"

[discarding]

To Ishigaki’s first question—if it’s so awful to admit—Midousuji simply elects to not answer. Because it’s so terrible that Midousuji doesn’t even want to acknowledge it a second time.

After Ishigaki finally explains, there’s a pause, and Mido’s finger is hooked behind the backs of his teeth, the dark rounds of his eyes aimlessly unfocused. Even through Ishigaki’s response, Midousuji is actually only half listening, mostly distracted by his own thoughts. He’s thinking about Ishigaki’s breathing; about how weird and crazy his frantic heart feels (though it has, indeed, thankfully slowed its cadence somewhat).

“Yes,” Midousuji answers, but it’s not like he finds it interesting, to Ishigaki’s point—anything is better than being candid with emotions. And distantly, though Midousuji knows the answer, he wonders how Ishigaki can even live like that. The answer is that Ishigaki is “normal.”

Well, mostly.

“I can see why you’re seeking distraction,” Midousuji says a bit awkwardly, then decides to finally take his finger out of his mouth (finally remembering that it’s there). “Even though I think what you were reeeeally looking for was a scapegoat.”

Midousuji suddenly grins, the smile a sharp and thin crescent, and he clutches his long fingers across part of it as he holds his chin, muffling a little laugh that warms his face and shakes his shoulders—just a little bit.

“Makes me wonder if I’m the only one who knows Ishigaki-kun is actually naughty…”

[gamanyeah]

Ishigaki has to translate Midousuji’s muffled response, but it's not like it's hard. Often times he's stimulating or doing something odd with his mouth- and it's his most expressive feature because of it. Though, he does take a few guesses on what's happening on the other end of the line- mental pictures of Midousuji nourishing his bored mind with varied objects in his mouth. It depends on where he is. His bed? Probably. And with the theme throughout the night, Ishigaki, again, longs to be beside him- this time to observe whatever little quirk Midousuji is doing.

Midousuji's next statement shakes that thought out of him, but it doesn't ease any of his much flared up nerves. He doesn't think anything will tonight as long as Midousuji keeps talking.

"Naughty??" Ishigaki repeats, and he takes note of the quiet type of playfulness he hears in the other's voice. It's new, and he wonders if it's the comfort of Midousuji's own home added onto the late hours of the night bleeding through the conversation.

The thought makes him drowzy. And just for a moment, Ishigaki wonders if he did crawl into bed with an empty mind and his phone against his cheek, that doing so would imitate them being beside each other.

Abrubtly, he shakes his head with lowered eyebrows, giving himself a mental scolding. If he was going to lean in so easily to feelings he didn't understand yet, he could practice hiding it better at the very least, couldn't he? Perhaps next time his thoughts will be more organized... he hopes.

"That's not it," Ishigaki replies, though he's not confident in that excuse. He hasn't even tried to return his fingers to his keyboard yet. "You're just distracting."

[discarding]

“Nope,” Midousuji replies, rolling his eyes to their upper corners as he tilts his head up, tongue flopping out of his mouth. Midousuji hugs around his knees, then flops his head back and forth. “I’m onto you. You called me to be distracted, and to have something else to blame. Naughty behavior. Groooosss.”

Midousuji looks at his knees, and his eyes fall half closed. An idle, bored finger pokes against a bruise on his patella.

“I wrote the book, you knowwww... Like sees like,” he teases, though his voice is still monotonous. It’s deeper than usual, despite his goofy teasing—likely a symptom of Midousuji being a combination of tired and relaxed. “This is just low stakes psychological warfare.”

If he can’t keep Ishigaki focused on his boring work, he isn’t going to burden himself with the responsibility. It’s a subject Midousuji knows nothing about, anyway.

“After all, what did you expect when you called me? Did you really think I’d be the best person to call to keep you on task?”

Midousuji’s eyes squint even more, just to slivers, and he grins, working into a particularly sore spot on his knee.

“Or maybe you called because…” Midousuji’s eyes widen with realization, and he blinks. “…youuuu… Did you have some kind of gross feeling that I might be the only one who would pick up…?”

Wow, he wishes he didn’t say that out loud. Because Midousuji did pick up!!

“…Gross…” Midousuji’s eyes widen further, and he sticks his legs straight up, shrieking. “Nooo!! No way! Gross!!”

[gamanyeah]

"E-eh? Eh??"

Ishigaki feels transparent. There's a prickle of panic, one that's sharp and sudden enough to hurt and send goosebumps down his back. Does he know? Is he catching on? But Ishigaki is just as quick to assure himself that no, despite how well trained Midousuji is at giving himself the upper hand, he knows his thoughts- his dream, more so- is safe with him.

Still, Ishigaki focus is shifting- to the way Midousuji's mockery doesn't relax him despite sounding so relaxed himself, to the subtle rise and fall of his voice. This side of Midousuji, despite so in character, is different- domestic, almost. Maybe that's why, moments ago, Ishigaki had such an abrupt, unwanted thought.

Domestic... His bed... How familiar.

In tune to the realization that his cheeks feel unbearly warm, there's a tight, unwelcomed ache in his slacks.

"T-that's not it! I had other options!" Ishigaki blurts, as if being loud makes him any more right.

Is that what he's into? Midousuji treating him like a idiot? He slaps his forehead on his desk, earning a whine, and cups his hands over his groin.

"It's not like I don't have study groups. Or classmates. Or friends. To go to... But. I... Eh... Well."

Ugh. Why did he have to use that word again, anyway? Naughty. He's too afraid to give these thoughts attention right now, so, forced to even his breathing, he continues.

"Fiiiine. Fine. I guess I... did call you on a whim." His words come out slow, but he does manage to get out a full sentence. Uncomfortablly, he shifts his thighs together.

"I was honest from the beginning wasn't I? I mean, I wanted your company. And I got it. Even if you're making this harder than it has to be..."

[discarding]

“Haaa??”

Midousuji tilts his head so abruptly and extremely, it looks like he’s just broken it for shits. His eyes snap towards his phone, expression becoming severe as he lifts his eyebrows, deciphering this information as quickly as possible. He sees an opportunity. To keep the upper hand, but also…something.

Ishigaki had other options for a late call, but picked Midousuji—Midousuji, who Ishigaki knows tends to sleep early, isn’t a socially graceful (or social at all) person…

He squints.

“A whim?”

He taps against his teeth, eyes snapping wide open again, this time to his ceiling.

“What, did something about marketing make you think of me?”

He’s being sarcastic, of course. His eyes narrow again, and through his clenched teeth, he lets out a shifty little laugh.

“You haven’t really disputed my theory. My company?” Midousuji’s grin grows. It’s not so incomprehensible (it’s Ishigaki, who’s squishy-hearted and gross), but it’s more fun to tease. “I think maybe out of all the people you know, you knew I’d keep you the least on task.”

Midousuji thinks he’s connected the dots. He hasn’t connected shit.

“Maybe I should hang uuuupp?? If I’m soooo distracting? Making it hard for you?”

Midousuji has the feeling Ishigaki doesn’t actually want that, though he couldn’t imagine it’s because of something like whatever is giving Ishigaki a boner. But he at least is aware that Ishigaki likes Midousuji’s company—and this interaction, this ‘whim,’ confirms that Midousuji is pretty high on his list. Which besides Midousuji’s own boner proclivities does too well to feed his ego, competitive over nothing all the time. He doesn’t know what he’s winning, but. He’s winning.

Midousuji is aware, and always has been, that Ishigaki has always been drawn to him—first resentfully and with the erroneous idea he might be able to wrangle Midousuji and reign him in, then with that disgusting, worse notion of wanting to support him. The sentiment that eventually conquered after all, changing Midousuji, bringing them right where they are.

He can’t quite tell who is under whose thumb—and it’s fun.

Midousuji laughs again, rolling his head side to side.

“Khh-hhh-hh. When’s this stupid paper due anyway, you bad child?”

[gamanyeah]

If Ishigaki didn't know any better, he could guess Midousuji's bantering sounds like... flirting? Is that it? No... This is only Midousuji. He's seen this before. In races, on stage, towards anyone and everyone. Though as harmless and personally tailored to Ishigaki his bullying is, there's no meaning behind it. There couldn't be.

But when his eyes flutter closed, and he doesn't think of any arguments against his questioning- let's his mind wander as Midousuji berates him, he spreads his legs- just a little- and his dick aches a bit harder inside of his shorts.

That's it. Midousuji's confidence. It makes him feel... small. It's... hot? Insanely so. How had he not seen this before?

He pushes one of his palm against his dick, only gently, and it's enough for him to hiss a sigh through his teeth that only he can hear.

...

Oh my god. What is he doing?

And as easy as it was to fall into something so selfish, he jumps out of it. His body jolts, and he sits up straight- mortified.

He pulls his hands away from between his thighs- curls them up again his face as if to hide his own shame from himself.

There's a moment where Ishigaki, through only anger towards himself, wants to snap back, to tell him to stop, that maybe hanging up is a good idea. And it is. But instead, as if his emotions are only ruled by his dick, he says nothing for a long moment.

Propping his elbows, he slides his hands up to run fingers through his hair, before resting his forehead in his palms.

"Ugh. Do I really have to say it??" Ishigaki pouts. He knows he's only adding fire to the flame, but he doesn't know how to be anything but honest. And his honesty has been known to flip Midousuji into a screeching, uncomfortable mess. Maybe this is one way to derail his situation downstairs. Or maybe it'll make things worse for him, and he'll like that too.

He sighs.

When he goes on to elaborate, the sentence comes out forced and mumbled.

"I just missed you, okay? So... don't hang up."

Ishigaki's arms fall back onto his desk, where he folds them- resting his cheek into the nook of his elbow. His arm feels pleasantly cool against his face, and he can only guess how red he is right now.

"You're the first... friend I've had that's so far away." That's right. Friend. Ishigaki hasn't had the time to really think of any reality past that. That word calms him down, if only a little. "So. I'm not used to something like this. That's all."

That's all...

"Anyway. My paper. It's due..." Ishigaki shifts his head to eye at the clock in the corner of his screen, then buries himself deeper into sleeves, defeated. Maybe tonight will be another all nighter, and that thought is almost enough to kill all of his body's pent up excitement. "Tomorrow morning."

[discarding]

“Ewww!! Don’t actually say it!!” Midousuji’s screaming is reflexive, and also, he knows, futile; it’s not something he’s confident Ishigaki could stifle if he tried. Midousuji’s hands slap against his face, covering his eyes, and he’s shrieking out a chorus of “gross!” in rapid succession. He begins to rub his face frenetically, up and down, and grits his teeth as he does it, groaning in the back of his throat as his fit of echolalia subsides.

Misses him…

At least it’s mutual, but Midousuji doesn’t even look that phrase in its face, though he feels it. He’s privately acknowledged he has feelings for Ishigaki, and that he desires him sexually. But missing him? Calling him his friend? A stone too far!!

For the second time, Midousuji is tempted to hang up. He rolls his eyes up, yanking down his lower lip. “Ew, ew ew ew ew.”

He does consider Ishigaki’s words, and gives a thoughtful snap of his teeth. He almost thinks it’s the first time he’s ever had a friend, but feels weird to consider that Onoda may have been his first friend. What the fuck has he become?! Disgraceful!

Midousuji flops sideways as Ishigaki blessedly takes Midousuji’s fit in stride, then switches subjects off the friendship track (thank god), his eyes wide and vacant, his mind buzzing. He bites his lower lip in a sort of lopsided line, expression otherwise empty.

He then blinks, and tilts his head, looking incredulously at his phone.

“Haaaa?? Tomorrow morning?” Midousuji’s eyes roll as his lips pucker, and he stretches his legs out, toes following suit. “Wooowww, you’re screwed. How far are you? Were you putting it off?? What a delinquent.”

[gamanyeah]

It's expected, but when Midousuji shouts, knocking all those dizzy feelings out of his head, Ishigaki jumps high enough in his chair to smack his knee on the underside of his desk, earning a yelp. And when he hurriedly crouches down to curl up into himself and grab ahold and comfort what's bound to bruise, the only thing he accomplishes is forgetting there's a whole ass desk in his way- banging his forehard as equally hard into it.

Yes. That's right. Ishigaki says something gay, Midousuji screams. He's bound to grow used to that eventually, right?

"Yeah." Ishigaki sighs, spits out an awkward laugh and rubs a hand over his forehead. Midousuji's sqauking fizzles out into the distance when he catches himself staring into the eyes of his faint reflection. He's flushed, and the sleepless college nights are starting to show under his eyes. It's ridiculous enough to kill the remainder of his unwelcomed boner, thankfully. "Yeah, I know."

'Maybe if you didn't provoke me to say stupid things, I wouldn't say them...'

Is what he wants to bark back, but he opts not to say anything. It's not an argument he can win. Midousuji isn’t wrong, anyway. Ishigaki is just confused.

His soon-to-be bruises sting, and with the shame he feels for being a giant pervert added on to that makes it feel too well deserved. Ishigaki wants to hide. He debates telling Midousuji that no, he actually should hang up, and then Ishigaki could go take a shower to wake up- wash away the thoughts that just happened, clear his head and start this night from step one. But instead he settles on continuing to milk the free time out of Midousuji.

He's going to have to figure out how to regain his composure before their next visit. But that's a problem for tomorrow's Ishigaki can solve.

"About half way...??" Ishigaki replies, but that statement feels generous. To his next question, he's not sure if he can answer honestly. It's out of character to put something off this bad, but he's had a lot of new, uninvited thoughts this week.

"I don't know. Each year gets harder to handle, I guess? Not everyone has your time management skills." And that's true, at least. It reminds him of how thankful he gradually became when Midousuji took over their team.

"I'm guessing school is going a lot easier for you then, huh?"

[discarding]

Midousuji jumps a little hearing the audio play-by-play of Ishigaki’s slapstick gay panic, but is over it quickly (more or less), letting his shoulders sag. But he tilts his head in curiosity at his phone all the same.

“Ha—… Is that right,” Midousuji breathes, almost sounding neutral. His expression is blank, but his tone has a hint of amusement as he yanks down his eyelid, entertained by Ishigaki so plainly acknowledging his delinquent aspects. Even so, Midousuji understands and recognizes that these terms, it’s barely so; being late on one paper is barely a gangster make. But there’s still a tickling novelty all the same.

When Ishigaki compares their scholastic experiences, Midousuji tilts his head, genuinely knotting his brain around it. His instinct, of course, is to say Ishigaki is wrong—the proceeding pause is Midousuji trying to figure out how to articulate it. He doesn’t notice as his feet cross, toes anxiously prodding the tops of his tendons.

“That’s a dumb thing to say,” Midousuji finally concludes, and his voice is still comfortable and quiet, eyes now rolled off to their upper corners as the hand that was pulling at his eyelid now instead pulls at his lower lip. No other reason than it feels good, for some reason—keeps him feeling level.

“That’s subjective, isn’t it? For you, school is a lot easier than for me—I just don’t happen to care about the ways it’s easier for you in my own personal experience because I don’t experience satisfaction as an individual in it. The same might be true in the reverse; you’re a social person. You need other people. You do well that way. That’s half of university, and half of any job industry.” Even sports, though Midousuji is too remiss to admit that as of yet.

“And anyways,” he continues, “My grades would be better if performing in cycling didn’t take priority over everything else.”

Midousuji feels a smug lick of self satisfaction that Ishigaki feels this way, but it’s not like Midousuji doesn’t do his best to study around his dream of being a professional athlete. If he makes it look effortless, he has nothing to gain from contradicting Ishigaki. But the fact of the matter is that it isn’t without strain.

“Going pro… I’m going to get good grades, and I’ll earn my degree. But it’s a formal farce for my family. I have no interest in that. I’m assuming that…” Midousuji’s eyes fall to the ripples in his sheets, where the fabric scatters in starchy, dented lines due to his own bodyweight. “…you simply have interest where I don’t.”

Midousuji’s only tentatively throwing it out there. He worries Ishigaki will quit cycling, and he’ll be drought of excuses to spend time with his former upperclassman.

“It’s true your time management skills are a bit weak, though,” Midousuji tosses in casually, shrugging his shoulder against his cheek where it’s trapped against his bed and his big, weird body.

“Is this what you want, by the way? Marketing… Duping young people into unneeded products… Why is that?”

[gamanyeah]

Ishigaki does recall Midousuji saying something similar, only faintly, back when they first met up. But even the second time around, it's as kind as it is unexpected to hear from him. What sticks is knowing Midousuji does have people he cares about, and it's enough for Ishigaki to turn and smile at his phone.

"Well, it's not something I'd normally choose, no..." He laughs quietly, always taken aback at how Midousuji knows him better than he does. The over analyzing would be flattering, if not for it only being a bullying tactic he learned on the road.

"I guess we're in school for the same reason." His words drawl out slow as he attempts to coincide typing and talking. "It's for my family too. Well, my dad. He owns a business. A small one."

Ishigaki pauses to absent mindlessly look past his laptop, taking note of the few awards that decorate his shelf. He remembers how taken aback his dad was from his very sudden, very costly interest, and how just as surprised Ishigaki had been to learn how sour his dad came to be. He can still smoothly picture the way his face wrinkled up when he'd come home late from practicing, and the bantering he'd recieve for leaving the shop early to do the same. 

He assumes it was only the jealousy of seeing Ishigaki exercise his independence, but even so his dad certainly didn't have any freedom from doubt that he could go anywhere far. It's not as if his son ever placed anything significant in his interhighs, and his first impression of that couldn't disprove his thoughts. Though, he eventually had no choice but to come to realize that it was a healthy hobby to have- that it built his son character- and that was enough for him. Maybe that's all Ishigaki could ask from him, too.

Ishigaki blinks slowly, his lips parted as he tries to redirect his thoughts. What were they talking about...? Oh, that's right.

"Ah... Anyway. Yeah. It probably is more bearable on my end. The collage experience, socially, academically- it's something I want to see. Even if nothing comes from it, I think I'll be glad with what I did."

It's not a lie, but when he hears himself admit it outloud, he can't help but notice an odd, wavering feeling.

"Well, I'm glad you're here to make my last year a little more bearable." Ishigaki chimes, forces his voice not to sound as sluggish as his body feels. He stretches long and wide- squeaks in the back of his throat when he does so- as if he had earned the right to do anything worth being tired for yet, before he's back hovering over his keyboard. "And who knows? Maybe I'll make everyone happy, and I'll end up managing a bike shop."

[discarding]

“Your dad…”

Well.

It’s stupid to chase after something that isn’t yours. In the end, Midousuji is going with cycling once he gets the degree—that’s his end of the bargain. It doesn’t sound like it’s Ishigaki’s. More like an alternative, if he decides not to go pro—if he decides it’s more important to help his father.

Midousuji feels his heart twist in a weird, cold way, some vague, fluttery memory of his mother’s tired eyes and warm, fading smile brushing against the raw nerves of his mind’s periphery.

With irritation, grimly, Midousuji decides he agrees: family is, of course, more important. Depending. It sounds like Ishigaki loves his dad. And maybe Ishigaki’s dad loves him? Probably. Midousuji doesn’t have a lot of experience with what dads are like or how they are or what they do.

But, with a degree, maybe Ishigaki could go pro until his father wanted to retire—after all, compromise is possible even where there’s unconditional love, right? That’s why Midousuji ate food he didn’t like—he didn’t care about being bigger or stronger, but his mother did. He even thought it was a scam, for a while, and did it anyways. It was only the same Summer that Midousuji’s skin gained faint, thin ripples of opalescent lines, like brush strokes, over his knees and the backs of his shoulders, that Midousuji realized she’d been right. Big and strong, but by then, she was long gone. But Midousuji carried on with that compromise the whole way, even if he felt a bit like a shithead for having his suspicions about moms making their children eat nasty food.

After all, Ishigaki’s passion is important too. It always bugged Midousuji, honestly—he just seemed passionate for being passionate. There was no drive—no reason. Just passion. Love of the sport. Pointless.

But now, Midousuji understands, that’s pure in it’s own way, too. A hunger for growth, for chasing, for overcoming. Too bad Ishigaki’s athetlic growth is so slow, even if he seems like he grows fast every other way (the not important ways: like emotionally, in maturity, EQ, etc).

Slow…

Midousuji thoughtfully taps his incisors. If he became a better athlete, would he maybe be more motivated to stay in professional cycling…

Midousuji is clearly not listening to Ishigaki, lost in his own thoughts, but he blinks with a snap to attention when Ishigaki says that dumb little thing that makes his heart hiccup and twist in a totally different way, warm and rippling to the tips of his fingers. Midousuji involuntarily makes a hissing in the back of his throat as he leans his head back, eyes wide with discomfort as his face pinks.

“Gross. You’re making it sound like it’s some duty and not some absolute coincidence.”

What is he, his wife?? Stupid Ishigaki. Wait, what? Fuck. Midousuji slaps his hand over his forehead.

And again when Ishigaki grunts and makes a weird sound in the middle of it. It isn’t cute.

“Ew. You’re the worst person I’ve ever spoken to. I really should hang up.”

Make everyone happy. Why are people like that??? Why would you want to make anyone besides the people you love and trust happy? And even then, that bar shouldn’t be too low.

Managing a bike shop, though…

Midousuji’s too frazzled to comment on it, for now—but decides to put it in the back of his mind for another conversation. It’s not a bad idea.

Not that Midousuji truly gives a shit about Ishigaki’s future, or anything. He’s just selfishly trying to strategize a way to keep himself in it. Because he’s disgusting.

“—Also, why a shop? How would that make your dad happy? Wouldn’t that change the trade of your clan? Unless it was some kind of weird combination bike and woodworking shop…”

Wait, nope, he somehow found a way into this conversation again. Good. “Unless you made stupid little wooden bikes for stupid little idiots. I guess you could make high end bike accessories and overcharge for that. Like decorative bike mounts, or storage solutions that look nicer than industry standard stuff?”

Midousuji again taps his teeth thoughtfully. Luxury is a great scam…